“You made a pact?” She clucked her tongue and circled him. “Signed it with your own blood?”
He held out his hand. A thick, bulbous scar ran the width of his palm. “Proof.”
“Fool! Vain, ambitious fool,” she whispered. “You’ve been given a gift, and you want to squander it!”
“What use is a gift if you aren’t alive to use it?” It was no gift to face the Shadowless again, not after he had betrayed her. He’d seen what tortures she used on innocents, but that was nothing compared to what she’d do to him. He feared only one thing, and she was walking the earth. “I must be free! Now!”
“Free to be mortal again? To throw away immortality?”
“To die a natural death.”
She shook her head. “I can’t help. The only one who can unbind you is you.”
“You’re talking in circles,” he said. “How do I unbind myself from the useless, quarrelsome family I serve?”
She picked up a stick of incense and blew softly to redden the ember. “Do you think it’s so easy to change your fate? To cast a few spells and unweave your life tapestry?”
“If it were easy,” he said, “I would’ve done it centuries ago.”
“What about the family you serve?”
“I pledged my service before I understood how . . . mundane they are. I was promised more.”
“Changing one’s fate is possible,” she said. “But it comes at a cost, a very high cost, and will leave a stain upon you.”
He was already stained by his crimes, and what good had it done? What did another mark matter? “I don’t give a damn.”
“I see that you don’t,” she said. “What do you have for payment?”
Harken delved into his pocket and pulled out a handful of antique subway tokens. “Pennies for the ferryman.”
Remember threw the veil from her face, and her youthful complexion began to crackle like weathered paint. Hand shaking, she examined the treasure in his palm, then cocked her head. “How did you get them?”
“Take as many as you like, in trade for answers.”
She pinched her lips. “Norns spend decades searching for just one of these coins, and you offer a handful. Do you understand their value?”
“Do you?” he said, shaking his hand so that the coins rattled like tin bones.
“Three,” she said, voice trembling. “I take three coppers as payment. Enough for the future, the past, and the present. And I require one more thing.”
“What?”
“A memory.”
“Of what?”
“Where your service began.”
“Coppers are my payment.”
“Great norns cannot do great magic on coppers alone,” she said. “It’s takes emotions, too, which you damn well know. I’m called Remember for a reason. Give me a memory, and I’ll help you.”
“Be careful what you wish for, norn.” Harken rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand and touched the bronze torc around his neck. Then he sighed and said in a low voice, as if he feared being overheard, “When she found me, I was a small boy playing in the barnyard of a highlands farmhouse. I was full of life and laughter, my black curls bouncing as I ran from the stalls to the fence, herding eider ducks and geese while my mother watched.
“‘Watch for the wee ones, now,’ my mother said.
“I lined up the hatchings and marched through the grass, the birds honking and quacking behind me, laughing and giggling. Then my mother’s soft hands lifted me high into the air, and I felt like I was flying. It was my first memory of my mother. It was also my last.
“‘Be a sweet lad now,’ my mother said. ‘The horse will be wanting her breakfast, too.’
“While Mother tended to the animals, I felt a warm zephyr blowing through my hair. I could still feel the sensation of it on my shoulders, still see the dirt on my hands as I bent down and made cakes in the mud.
“That’s when I heard it whisper to me like bells in my ears. I lifted my head to listen. The sound of the bells grew louder, and I dropped the pies back into the mud. Through long grasses I wandered, following the chimes. I don’t know how far I went, but there was a hill and a lone tree in the distance. After a while I thought I heard my mother calling my name, but she was drowned out by the music.
“I inched closer to the tree. The music turned to a voice, and it spoke to me, honey sweet. ‘Harken to me, my wee child. Hear my voice.’
“I walked onward, closer and closer to the tree, until I broke free of the high grass. All that mattered was the voice that came from the beautiful lady sitting against the trunk. Her hair was black, like mine, and cascaded over her shoulders. She wore a flowing crimson velvet dress that seemed to swallow her. She stretched her arms and smiled as brightly as the sun above us.
“I hesitated because the limbs above her were full of birds—grackles, sparrows, crows, and magpies—all perched in the branches, their eyes trained on me, following my every move.
“‘Sweet child,’ the woman said, ‘listen to my voice. Come sit on my lap, and I will tell you a story.’
“I took a tentative step forward, but still I hesitated. Then she smiled again, as if her eyes held a secret, and then she held out a honey tart.
“‘For you,’ she said, and my hesitation was gone.
“I dived into her lap, and snatched the treat from her hand, greedily eating it, the honey, the sweet honey running down my chin.
“‘More?’ I said.
“She laughed and ran her fingers through my hair. ‘Soon,’ she said. ‘What beautiful eyes you have, blue like the seas of Denmark. Not even the Three Norns could resist them.’
“I barely heard her. My thoughts were only for another treat and how I might get one.
“‘Are you an angel?’ I said. ‘Or a fairy?’
“‘An angel I am not,’ she said, laughing. ‘Nor am I a lady of the fae, but if ye dare to kiss my head, a treat you’ll have to the end of days.’
“She kissed my cheek, and I slept. In that moment I lost all yearning for my mother, the barnyard, and the ducks and goslings that had followed me around. I wanted only another treat, and if this dear lady with the beautiful face and long black hair would give it me, then I was willing to do anything. Anything she asked.”
“And did you?”
“Yes,” he said after a moment, “until she asked too much.”
“A very powerful memory, familiar.” Remember carefully plucked the coppers from his hand, then placed two glass vials on the table, one brown, one clear. “To be free of your promise, you betray someone you love. Can you do that?”
“I can.” He held the brown bottle to the light. A betrayal would be nothing to him. He loved no one, and he could remember no one ever loving him. “What is this? Tea?”
“Aqua Tofana,” she said without looking up from the coins. “Giulia’s own recipe, death in two parts. The brown vial sedates the victim, and the clear finishes them off. It will set you free, if you are willing to pay the price.”
“I’ll pay whatever is necessary.”
“Even if the price,” she said, pulling the veil over her face as one eye rolled back in her head, “is your soul?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE Beacon School was housed in a four-story brownstone near downtown. The front had a patch of green lawn, with a flagpole in the middle, and wide, sweeping stairs up to four huge oak doors, like something from a cathedral. The back of the building was plain, with tall windows and a rickety fire escape that likely would collapse in a strong wind.
The building was much older than the school. It was built in the 1870s with a gift from the Boston College of Surgeons. The top three floors were wood and plaster, with sweeping staircases and high transoms. The basement was dank and moldy, a former morgue where medical students practiced on cadavers and stray animals alike. Rumor had it that the first dean paid grave robbers, and supposedly there were still jars of specimens in formaldehyde hidden behind the steel doors th
at blocked entry to the basement. The ghosts of the dead lingered below, looking for the bodies that had been stolen from their graves.
It made for a good story to scare the freshmen. None of it was true, though. The basement was full of cleaning supplies and broken furniture, and the only thing left of the old morgue was a room with a tiled floor where the Zamboni was parked between games. The basement and the ice rink were connected by a short tunnel. I had passed it hundreds of times after practice on the way to the locker room, and it was no more haunted than the free-range chicken aisle at Urban Market.
I arrived at the school gates, a ten-foot-tall fence made of iron and topped with sharp spikes, fifteen minutes late, which Siobhan reminded me of by texting, Do you know for whom the bell tolls?
It tolls for me, I texted. Again.
I sprinted down the dimly lit hallway, hit the brakes at my classroom, and almost kissed the floor. Years of scooting around on ice with knives strapped to my feet helped me keep my balance. I righted myself and stopped at the door labeled “US History: SAXON.” Through the glass I could see my AP teacher, Mrs. Saxon, pointer stuck in hand, showing a PowerPoint about The Crucible.
The Beacon social studies department believed in teaching history through literature, so it felt like we had English twice a day. Since Ma was doing costumes for the Shubert’s revival of The Crucible, my family had lived and breathed the Salem witch trials for weeks.
Saxon had spent four classes lecturing about the Communist hysteria of the fifties and Arthur Miller’s attempt to draw attention to it. Why couldn’t we just read the play? Or better yet, go watch it? Who even thought reading a play was a good way to appreciate it? Did people study screenplays instead of watching the movie? Shakespeare was right when he wrote, “The play’s the thing.”
Thankfully Siobhan, who was wearing thick-framed glasses and a kerchief to tie up her hair, like a myopic Rosie the Riveter, was sitting near the door. Saxon always locked it after the tardy bell. If you came late, you had to knock and wait, then recite from an important work. Yesterday I had recited the Preamble, which was enough blessings of liberty to last a posterity.
I tapped the window and mouthed, Let me in.
Siobhan shook her mop of black hair, no.
I nodded, yes.
Siobhan pointed at Saxon. No.
I shook my fist. Yes!
Siobhan stuck out her tongue.
I made a kissy face, then imitated a guppy by putting both hands beside my ears and crossing my eyes. Siobhan laughed and mimed applause. She held a finger up, waiting for an opportunity, then sprang for the door.
I slipped inside as Saxon’s voice droned, “Inspired to write the play by the House Un-American Activities Committee, led by a certain senator from Wisconsin. Does anyone know his name?”
Shoes in hand, I slid into an empty desk. “The weirdest thing happened,” I whispered to Siobhan. “Devon was—”
“Miss Conning,” Mrs. Saxon said. “Detention for your second tardy, unless you’d like to say the Preamble?”
“I’ll take Classroom Punishments for two hundred, Alex.” I stood and began reciting the tardy passage. “You cannot hear the Shadowless when her breath is in your ear. You cannot see the Shadowless when she raises up her shears.” What the hell? How did that come out of my mouth?
“Salty!” Siobhan whispered and gave me a surreptitious fist bump.
“That is not,” Saxon said, like each syllable was imprinted by a tax stamp, “from the Constitution.”
“It’s not?” I said. “But that’s the way they did it on Schoolhouse Rock.”
Siobhan started to sing, “We the people—”
“Be quiet!” Saxon said. “Now, do you or do you not know the senator’s name?”
“Me?” I said.
“Is there another Willow Jane in this classroom? On this planet, for that matter?”
“Well, I am pretty unique,” I replied tartly. Where the hell did that come from? Since when did I get salty with a teacher?
“I sincerely doubt that,” Saxon said flatly. “Answer the question correctly, and I’ll forget the detention.”
“Uh.” I glared at Siobhan, mouthing, Help me! “Um.”
Siobhan shrugged, as if to say, Why’re you asking me?
“I know the answer, Mrs. S.” I mimed tugging a hat onto my head. “I just need a minute to put on the ol’ thinking cap.”
Saxon tapped her foot. “With each passing moment, I grow less interested in anything you have to say.”
“That’s what her husband said last night,” Siobhan said to take the heat off me, and the room erupted with laughter.
“Out!” Mrs. Saxon screamed. “To the dean’s office, Siobhan. I’ve had enough of your mouth!”
“That’s what he said,” Siobhan said.
Saxon whacked her lectern with the pointer stick. “That will be quite enough!”
“That’s what he said,” Siobhan said, “when she offered him seconds.”
Mrs. Saxon snapped the stick in half. “In all my years in the classroom, I have never—”
I jumped up and announced, “Joseph McCarthy!”
“What?” Mrs. Saxon said. “What did you say?”
Siobhan was just trying to protect me, so I couldn’t let her get kicked out. She and the dean of students were literally on a first-name basis, and he’d warned her that one more “episode” with Mrs. Saxon would earn her three days of OSS and no D1 scholarship offers. She couldn’t get suspended, not with the game against All Saints coming up. She was our only chance of winning. And she was my best friend. My only true friend.
“The name of the senator was Joseph McCarthy,” I said quickly. “Arthur Miller wrote the play as a modern protest against the actions of the House Un-American Activities Committee, likening its actions to witch hunts. By the way, McCarthy was a senator, so he didn’t actually chair the Un-American Activities Committee, since it was in the House.”
“Wicked,” Siobhan whispered. “Somebody’s been cribbing off teh Wikipedia.”
I snapped my fingers. “Just call me Wicked-pedia, bitches!” Oh my god, what have I done? Bitches? Why did I call them bitches? Ma was going to kill me. The dean was going to suspend me, too. I had never even been to the dean. Ever. I rubbed my face, stunned at my own stupidity. “I wish I’d just answered the stupid question.”
The words had barely escaped my tongue when I heard the xylophone noise and colors swirled like a rainbow toilet flushing in my brain. The fabric of reality whipped around and around, and I found myself slipping into my desk.
It was déjà vu all over again.
Mrs. Saxon faced the class. “Miss Conning, nice to see you’ve shown up. Detention for your second tardy. Now, do you know the senator’s name?”
“Me?”
“Is there another Willow Jane in this classroom? On this planet, for that matter?”
“Um . . . no?”
Saxon crinkled her nose. “Answer the question correctly, and I’ll forget detention.”
It was as if somebody had hit the rewind button on reality. I was really getting a do-over? I glanced at Siobhan, who gave no indication that something weird was going on.
“Joseph McCarthy.” I squinted at the too bright lights. “Arthur Miller wrote the play as a modern protest against the actions of the Un-American Activities Committee, likening its actions to witch hunts.”
“Somebody’s been cribbing off teh Wikipedia,” Siobhan said.
This time I kept my mouth shut. No wicked. Definitely no bitches.
“I’m impressed, Conning,” Mrs. Saxon said. “From your grade on The Scarlet Letter test, I assumed you only read SparkNotes. Now class, back to the PowerPoint.”
Her voice trailed away. What had just happened? I was no stranger to déjà vu, but this, this was totally different. It didn’t just feel like I’d experienced this before—I knew I had.
“Hey, you okay?” Siobhan whispered. “You look like you saw a ghost.”
Myself.
“Can I get an aspirin?” I whispered. “My head’s killing me.”
“What about water?”
“I don’t need no stinking water.”
It was a lie. I was so thirsty I could drink a whole gallon. Siobhan dug two tablets from her purse and put them in my palm. There was a red, angry bump on my thumb. I touched it, and a jolt of electric pain arched up my arm. The aspirin tumbled from my hand and rolled under a bookcase.
“Stop!” I whispered.
The aspirin stopped on edge, unmoving. So did everything else: Siobhan, the other kids, even Saxon. Everything she had written—the week’s vocab words, the day’s agenda, a list of due dates for assignments—had been erased from the whiteboard. In its place were large red letters. They were turned at crazy angles, some backward, as if the writer had been blindfolded and dyslexic.
And if you feel the Shadowless
When she blankets you with chill,
Do not accept her cold caress—
For the Shadowless will kill.
It was just like the poem on the sidewalk—this time in marker instead of chalk. I picked up an eraser and wiped out the first line of the poem, just like it had been removed from the sidewalk.
But you weren’t the one who washed it off then, I thought. At the time I’d been so freaked out by Devon that I missed that little detail. Someone else had seen the poem. Someone else knew about it. Knew about the Shadowless.
Knew about me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
TWO long, bony fingers groped beneath the cabinet. With a soft clink they found the object they sought, a sewing needle several inches long. As the hand withdrew the needle from the darkness, it glinted in the sunlight streaming through the windows of the magic shop.
“I believe,” the strange customer said, holding up the needle, “that you may have dropped this.”
A sign behind the register read DO NOT TOUCH COSTUMES WITHOUT GLOVES. The Magic Shop was the only place in South Boston that custom-tailored authentic costumes, and Veronica, who had come into work feeling hung over even though she hadn’t been drinking, preferred that customers make appointments for fittings in advance. She especially didn’t like strangers dropping in unannounced, like the weird one here now, wearing a stained trench coat and a dirty fedora pulled low. At the customer’s feet lay dozens of pins, which Veronica had dropped when she turned and shrieked.
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